


bury my heart on the coals

by dogworldchampion



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogworldchampion/pseuds/dogworldchampion
Summary: Lieutenant Melanie Hawkins is the best cop in the NYPD for a reason. As they’re being transferred to the Brooklyn Metropolitan Detention Center, Jake and Rosa find out they’re actually being sent to further infiltrate a notorious gang. And thus begins one of the biggest, most dangerous undercover operations in history.---Jake’s in shock, staring at Lieutenant Hawkins with his jaw hanging open. “The Artichoke King?” he whispers, with a hint of reverence. “He’s legendary. Total badass - I mean, awful, obviously, but--”“Yes, the Artichoke King,” Hawkins interjects, wrinkling her nose a bit at Terranova’s ridiculous street name. “And I can promise you much, much less than fifteen years if you cooperate.”





	1. spin me round just to pin me down

**Author's Note:**

> hi, y'all!! so, this has been in the works all summer - started as a short one shot, that turned into a long hiatus fic, that turned into a really long multichap. fic title is from ghosts that we knew, by mumford and sons. chapter title is from home, also by mumford and sons (can you tell what i was listening to??) 
> 
> so super super special thanks to tumblr users jakelovesamy and elsaclack, who convinced me to write and have listened to me try to put this on paper, ask questions, and whine in turn all summer about this. i owe y'all big time for this one.
> 
> and also you should know that the artichoke king is a real life new york mobster from the 20s i promise i didn't make it up.
> 
> anyway tell me what you think//come find me on tumblr @the-pontiac-bandit!

The handcuffs dig into Jake’s wrists as the car bounces down the road towards the Brooklyn Metropolitan Detention Center. “Guilty on all charges,” rings through his head on loop, and he spares a second for the thought that having this stuck in his head is way worse than the time that he couldn’t seem to stop singing  _ Uptown Funk  _ for a month. 

He knows, somewhere in the back of his head, that if he relaxed his arms, he’d be in less pain. He could put them gently in his lap, sit calmly and try to breathe. But that brings with it a sea of panic that is threatening to spill over and flood his head, ready to overwhelm his senses and stifle his breath. He can already feel the bruises forming, see the blisters and the skin that’s already beginning to chafe under the cold, harsh metal, but that feeling is keeping him tethered to reality. As long as he’s straining his arms so hard they quake, feeling every nerve ending in his wrists scream at him, he’s not seeing Amy’s face as the air rushed out of her lungs at the realization he would be leaving.  _ Again.  _

The car bounces forward jerkily - this cop is far too heavy on the brakes, Jake decides - as he watches the skin around the cuffs turn white as he tries to keep himself from screaming or crying or maybe both. He feels like his thoughts should be racing a mile a minute, thinks he should be on the verge of a panic attack, but he’s shockingly calm. His mind is blank, and his ears are ringing, and he knows that later tonight something inside him will break and he’ll be screaming until his voice is raw into whatever excuse for a pillow they give him. But now all he can hear is a neverending chorus of  _ guilty. Guiltyguiltyguilty.  _ He starts to hum it under his breath, to the tune of “Hallelujah Chorus”, for some reason that he can’t fathom. But soon, the  _ guilty _ s are overlaid with a children’s chorus of  _ Santiago,  _ to be sung at midnight in Times Square, and all of a sudden his world seems to have shifted just a few shades darker and it’s getting louder, echoing around his head in the total silence of the car and threatening to drive him insane until finally - mercifully - their driver slams on the brakes for a red light and he jerks forward, thrown out of his reverie and back into this new, nearly-as-horrifying reality.

So he pulls his arms tighter against the cuffs. 

Rosa is hunched over to his right, staring out the window. He’s never seen her sit this slouched before - Jake knows she was a dancer in some distant past life, so she must be fighting every muscle in her body to be sitting that low, that curved, that  _ defeated _ . There’s no way to know what’s happening behind her dark eyes - there never is - but the way that her fingers tap restlessly against the hem of her pink pencil skirt give her away. Her nails drum with the speed of her thoughts, and he wonders if she’s considering making a break for it - barrel-rolling at a stop sign, losing the police in the crowd, burning off her fingerprints in a gas station bathroom as her fiance had a billion years ago - or was it only this time last spring? 

But Jake also knows that she didn’t run before. Rosa’s not a runner. 

Part of him wants to reach out and hold her hand. He thinks, for a second, about the ways he could contort his body so that his handcuffed hands could reach hers across the middle seat but no touching and being brave and she looks so porcelain-delicate he thinks (knows) she’d break if he tried to touch her. 

So instead, he sits. He digs his wrists just a little deeper into the cuffs, just like the ones he put on as a joke with Rosa in the Academy, when she bet him $20 that he couldn’t get out and he lost, to keep holding on. He tries his best to escape this tiny, horrible car, to blind himself to the bad haircut of the cop whose impassive face is staring at the road as he navigates traffic with what feels like a brick on the gas pedal, to stop smelling the sweat and dirt and somehow - inexplicably - fear that saturate the back seat of the squad car. 

Has he ever had to sit in the back of a squad car before? He doesn’t think so. 

No - he has. A million times before on a million stakeouts with Rosa and Charles and Holt and Terry and Amy. Just not like this. And then he’s picturing Charles grinning at him across the center console as they scream, “Unbreak my heart,” and Terry is literally  _ drinking  _ yogurt out of a container because he forgot a spoon and Holt is criticizing his choice of man sandals, and Amy is laughing and smiling and looking completely, wonderfully  _ whole  _ and unbroken and not like her heart has been smashed to pieces on the floor in front of her. 

He tries his best to live in  _ those  _ cars instead of this one, to pretend he’s anywhere but here. Rosa’s mane of curly black hair helps. In a different world, they’re staking out a bank, watching for an anticipated robbery, while Taylor Swift croons quietly in the background (it’s his turn to choose the music on their next stakeout. He makes a mental note to write that down, so she can’t try to cheat him and play Phil Collins, if they ever get to do that again.  _ When  _ they get to do that again). 

The distantly recalled sounds of laughter and the warmth that accompanies it, the sight of Amy’s bright face, from when she was a green detective sharing his car for the first time and trying not to kill her new partner busy scream-singing “All Star” in the passenger seat, overlaid with the same bright face a decade later as she says “I love you, so much,” and gets out of the car for work in the morning, it calms him. His arms relax, just a fraction. And he lets that scenery take over, blurring the hard edges of the squad car. 

The few minutes left in their short ride to the jail seem to last hours, as though they’re suspended indefinitely in jello through the last few turns. He has this path memorized - he knows it by heart. He knows exactly what’s coming. And every time they inch closer to his destination, the seconds tick slower. He wants to ask Rosa if she’s feeling the same thing, but the cop in the front seat thinks they’re guilty, hates them with every fiber of his being maybe even more than the criminals they arrested that are waiting for them on the other side of those bars. There’s nothing most law enforcement - including him - hates more than a dirty cop. So he settles for biting his lip, twisting his wrist a little, and leaning over, to nudge her knee with his across the seat. She looks up, for just a second, and through the mask, he catches just a flash of gratitude. 

_ We’ll get out of here. A thousand pushups.  _

And then the gates are opening and all of a sudden everything is grey, as though a shadow has been cast over his entire life. Somewhere in the back of his head, Jake remembers that it was sunny, once, on the outside (a few seconds ago?). And the way he can feel his eyes squinting against bright light suggests it still is. But somehow, he can’t see that anymore. 

And then they’re being pulled out of the back doors of the squad car, being led by prison guards through the doors that Jake’s seen a billion times but never had to go through. They use the doors around the corner, where you need a detective’s badge to gain admittance. 

Somewhere, he wonders where his badge is, if they took it when they took his rank. He hopes it’s still in the top drawer of his nightstand, where he left it the night after they were framed, after four hours in a holding cell and way more money than Jake could afford on Amy's credit card for bail and a car ride home during which he wordlessly turned down Sal’s because he felt sick to his stomach, when he threw the badge against the wall in frustration, leaving a crack that Amy couldn’t even be bothered to scold him for because she was too busy holding him and speaking softly and doing her best to calm him down and trying to hold back the tears that were already spilling down her cheeks and into his hair, where she refused to acknowledge that they’d fallen. 

But none of that matters now. He knows this path, too, almost like the back of his hand. Left, left, right, left, second door on the right. That’s where they’ll take his suit, give him an orange jumpsuit. That’s where he and Rosa will part ways for their separate wings of the prison, where he’ll be given a pillow, a toothbrush, and a few other personal effects, to get him started in quarantine until he can move into a cell in his temporary home - if he can call fifteen years temporary. 

But instead, they turn right. He doesn’t notice, at first. His legs are moving under him and he can’t feel them and he’s not sure he’s moving forward at all but then he’s being yanked back by his cuffs, held taut between his wrists, in the opposite direction. 

And now he’s confused. He’s shaken out of his reverie, and his eyes are moving around wildly, and then they catch Rosa’s. She gives him an almost imperceptible shrug, and the corner of her mouth twitches in a reassuring - if uncharacteristic - smile and  _ of course  _ she’s still calm and holding him together and  _ wow _ he owes her a million pushups if they ever get out of this (he’ll be buffer than Terry by the time he finishes). 

And then they’re in a room. They’re left there, for a few seconds. The door locked from the outside behind the guards. And they spend precious seconds staring at each other in shock, before either one realizes they can talk. 

Finally, after an eternity, Jake clears his throat. “Rosa, I’m sorry. I--”

“No,” she growls hard. “Not your fault. And anyway, we’re not doing that ri--”. And then her voice turns into a guttural scream and she’s leaping over his head and she’s been caught midair by the fist of Melanie Hawkins and finally Jake’s goldfish brain catches up and he’s charging the woman who put him here until a guard follows him in and grabs his shoulders, locking him in place. 

Rosa, meanwhile, has risen to her feet, is getting ready to fight. Her arms may be chained behind her back, but Jake knows firsthand what damage this former dancer can do with her feet, especially in the stilettos they let her keep on after the trial. But before she can even begin, a second guard is behind her, restraining her, lifting her off her feet, and she’s kicking, thrashing, and she uses the back of her head to break his nose with a sickening  _ crack _ but she keeps fighting as his blood soaks her hair and Jake’s never seen her this  _ unhinged  _ and if he were the guards he’d be sprinting for a nicer job in Ropesburg, New Jersey, and honestly  _ he’d  _ prefer some more distance between himself and his friend because she’s more like a feral lion than a human being, and suddenly a second and third guard have grabbed her feet and neutralized the threat, although they haven’t stilled her completely. Every muscle in her body is tensed as she hangs suspended in midair, still fighting. 

Her movements slow in increments, until finally, she’s gone limp in the guards’ arms and they’ve replaced her feet on the floor. And then Jake finds his words. 

“Why,” his voice is hoarse from lack of use. He coughs, then starts again. “Why are  _ you  _ here? Why are  _ we  _ here?” 

Melanie Hawkins sighs, and lines appear and deepen on her face. Her voice is harsh, unyielding, and it’s almost impossible for Jake to stop himself from screaming just to drown her out. “I wanted to see it for myself, hear why you did it.”

All Jake can manage in response is a strangled shout of defiance. He wants to yell at her to leave, to never come back, to go straight to Chief Garmin and confess so that he can get his  _ life  _ back and it’s not fair and nothing’s fair and he sees Rosa’s eyes dart around the room, watches her arms and legs clench tight, knows she’s getting ready to express with her fists the sentiments he can’t seem to find the words for. But more guards see the same thing Jake does, and they form a subtle barrier between Rosa and Hawkins, cracking their knuckles, communicating clearly that they’d best calm down. 

Hawkins, meanwhile, remains unfazed. She even lets out a wry chuckle as she walks to the table in the center of the room and sits down on one side. She looks as relaxed as Jake does on the couch with a carton of fried rice - certainly not as though she’s facing down two innocent people she just framed ( _ Although _ , Jake decides,  _ being able to look this relaxed is probably how she got good at it _ .) “You going to cool down now, Diaz?” Hawkins asks. “I can get rid of those cuffs for you - if you’re good.”

Rosa’s jaw clenches, then unclenches. Twice. A third time. And then slowly, carefully, she nods once, looking as though she just swallowed a mouthful of Amy’s worst baked ziti. Hawkins nods in reply, and guards immediately snap to, pulling out keys and fighting for the honor of following the commands of the best lieutenant the NYPD’s ever seen -  _ so they think _ , Jake adds angrily in his head. 

Then, guards are looking at him and Hawkins’ lips are moving - she must be asking him the same question, although he can’t bring himself to listen to her ( _ guiltyguiltyguilty  _ plays through his head with the rhythm of his heartbeat, overwhelmingly loud in his ears) - so he nods. Guards move behind him with shocking speed, and then they’re tapping his arms, telling him to relax, forcing his elbows to bend and his wrists to move closer to one another. And then the cuffs are gone. He had largely forgotten they were there, forgotten that he was straining so hard against them he could feel the bones in his wrist creak with every movement, until the pressure disappears and his wrists are throbbing and his hands are a little bit numb and someone nudges him forward towards the chair that Hawkins had kicked out for him to sit on. 

As he sits, his arms fly up like a magnet is pulling them skyward. Amy showed him this trick once - a million years ago in an entirely different galaxy - and explained that if muscles are pushed hard enough and long enough in a certain direction, they adjust and it takes time for them to realize the situation’s changed. At the time, he thought it was hysterical. Now, though, he’s fighting his arms, which are demanding to extend like airplane wings, and he doesn’t remember how to laugh. 

Hawkins, meanwhile, is barking at the guards to  _ leave, now _ . They protest. Loudly. Jake and Rosa are criminals, dirty cops who can’t be trusted. They aren’t even cuffed. A single glare from their idol silences them - if Melanie Hawkins can’t handle herself against these two  _ nobodies  _ then no one can. 

The door shuts behind them, and Hawkins’ expression morphs instantly. If Jake didn’t know her better, he’d say it resembled sympathy. 

“You asked why you were here, and I have an answer.”

Both Jake and Rosa open their mouths, ready to cut her off, but she holds up a hand, and they fall silent again. 

“So, what you didn’t know when you were tailing Ocampo is that this case is much larger than you could possibly imagine. Ocampo had ties not only with the Golden Gang - which was really pretty small, by gang standards - but also with the Onyx Dragons.” 

The name rings a bell somewhere deep in the back of Jake’s mind, the part that’s still a detective, constantly storing information for new connections and epic solves. It isn’t until he glances at Rosa - like a child looking at his neighbor for the answers on a quiz - that it comes to him. Then, whispers from years of interviews and arrests and case reports are flooding back: a shadow organization, active for more than four decades, impossible to catch. A little bit legendary in the NYPD for their brutality and for their ability to flawlessly cover their tracks. Amy told him once she didn’t believe they were real, or they would’ve been caught by now. 

His hand twitches, going towards his pocket to text her a few  _ I told you so _ gifs, but then he remembers that was taken from him before he got in the car. His stomach sinks, and it takes every muscle in his body to stay upright, to avoid showing Hawkins how defeated he feels.

Instead, he turns back to Lieutenant Hawkins, wondering how on earth this connects to them. When she sees that he’s listening again, she continues. 

“I’m not actually a dirty cop--hear me out!” She holds up a hand, and something about the look on her face makes Rosa swallow whatever she had opened her mouth to say. 

“Anyways, I’m not a dirty cop. I’ve been working with the FBI for years, since Ocampo first surfaced. He worked for the Onyx Dragons in the ‘90s, knows their operations like the back of his hand, but they took it a bit too far, killed one of his buddies when they found out his girl knew too much. So he came to me - I was a sergeant in the Eight-Six back then, and his apartment was around the block from our precinct - and told me he was ready to help take them down. I’ve been posing as a dirty cop in the criminal community ever since - with FBI resources and even my own task force - to bring them down.” 

“If you’re not dirty, then why the  _ hell  _ are we in the MDC?” Jake is shocked by the edge in his own voice, by the iciness dripping out of every syllable. It reminds him of Amy when the librarian was unfamiliar with the Dewey Decimal System and Amy ended up reshelving an entire cart of books while the librarian - and Jake - looked on in nervous shock. 

“I’m getting there, Detective. Give me a minute.” Jake hates her, can feel it churning in his stomach, but he still sits a little straighter at the word  _ detective _ . For the first time in two months, he is not  _ prisoner, defendant, convicted _ . And he never thought he’d be anything else again. 

“Like I said, Ocampo has been a double agent since ‘95 or ‘96, and you were zoning in on him. We had to get you out of the way, protect our only link to a shadow gang. When you didn’t back off on investigating him, I considered threats from Chief Garmin, letters of admonishment from your CO, even demotions. But you two are good cops - that wasn’t going to work. 

“But then, Ocampo told me about Joey Terranova. Terranova was arrested last month for a string of burglaries in the early 2000s, and he’s suspected of many far more violent crimes that no one can seem to pin to him. But according to Ocampo, he’s a kingpin in the Onyx Dragons organization, and some remarkably incompetent beat cops happened to stumble across just enough incriminating evidence to lock him up for five years for burglary. He’s been cut off from the outside world for eighteen months, just waiting for us to get someone in and get him to talk. Problem is he’s way too well-connected for your average detective to just drop in undercover.”

“He gets  _ five  _ years?” Rosa’s voice slices through the still air of the windowless room. “Must be nice not to have your whole  _ life  _ tossed in the garbage, huh?” 

Jake, meanwhile, barely hears her. He’s in shock. “The Artichoke King?” he whispers, with a hint of reverence. “He’s  _ legendary _ . Total badass - I mean, awful, obviously, but--” 

“Yes, the Artichoke King,” Hawkins interjects, wrinkling her nose a bit at Terranova’s ridiculous street name. “And I can promise you much, much less than fifteen years if you cooperate.” 

“If we cooperate with what?” Jake does his best to keep his voice neutral, but there's a small heat in the pit of his stomach, one that he almost recognizes as hope. 

“We need more evidence on Terranova, to put him away for good. That's where you come in. You're some of the best detectives in the city, and you,” she nods at Jake, “even have previous undercover experience. Infiltrate Terranova’s circle, find enough evidence to put him away and take down the Dragons - or at least, give us a real lead - and you'll be out before you can blink.” 

“And what if we don't want to?” Rosa is leaning back, arms crossed. She's armed herself with the knowledge that Lieutenant Hawkins needs her, used it like steel to straighten her back and rekindle the fire in her eyes. 

Hawkins sighs. “That complicates things. Of course, you wouldn't serve the full sentence, but getting you out on appeal takes time, and it has to be done in a way that won't cost the city. We couldn't risk asking you first because this is one of the most classified operations run by the NYPD.  _ No one  _ can know - even the others from your precinct. But you're maybe the only two people in the state who could pull this off - right timing, right skills--”

“It helps that you already put us in jail,” Rosa snarls. 

“It does,” Hawkins concedes with a shrug, trying and failing to look repentant. “But succeed here, and you'll be set. Fast-tracked promotions, more accolades than you've ever seen - you’d be NYPD legends. You could get your own task force, or a promotion to Major Crimes or a job at the FBI. Help us, and we’ll help you.”

“Could you help us get home?” Jake’s voice is bitter, angry. This isn’t like last time - last time he had warning, time for a proper goodbye. Time to give Amy all his open cases. Time to say what he needed to say. 

“I told you I can. But you won’t take that option.”

“Says who?” Rosa’s voice is defiant, but it wavers a little at the end - it almost sounds like she’s second-guessing her question as it comes out. 

“You’re two of the best detectives in the NYPD. We saw the Ianuccis,” she nods at Jake, “and Figgis and the Giggle Pig task force. You  _ help  _ people. Staying saves lives, so you’ll do it.” Her voice is hard, unsympathetic, and supremely smug - Jake’s first instinct is to shout refusals just to prove her wrong.

But instead, Jake and Rosa are silent. Jake wants to tell her to let him out so he can call Amy to come pick him up. He wants to say he won’t do it, but then he thinks about the stories he’s heard about the Onyx Dragons - the stolen property, the beatings, the murders - stuff out of nightmares. And somehow, the thought of the engagement ring he’d been eyeing at the jewelry store by the precinct is hard to hold on to. Amy’s face is bright and clear in his mind, but he knows what she’d tell him to do, if he could ask her. 

He’s reminded of Hawkins’ presence when she stands up to leave. “I’ll let you two think about it. But either way, you’re here for the night. And for quite a few more after that. Guards will be back in five minutes to take you to change clothes and get a bunk.”

Jake and Rosa remain perfectly still, every muscle tight, as they watch Hawkins leave. Jake can’t help but notice the animosity in his best friend’s eyes, and some rational part in the back of his brain thinks that Hawkins might be the only person in the country who isn’t intimidated by that glare. 

One hand on the door, Hawkins turns around again. “In case it wasn’t clear, this conversation never happened.  _ No one  _ knows.” 

And then she’s gone. And Jake’s stomach is plummeting like a skydiver because he knows what comes next. 


	2. can't get around the river in front of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks thanks thanks to all of you who reacted so positively to chapter 1 omg!! i still can't believe all of u liked this but ANYWAY special thanks to tumblr users elsaclack for her wonderful proofreading skills/general question-answering prowess and jakelovesamy for her literal infinite capacity to listen to my whining and read my progress every 500 words. 
> 
> chapter title from don't swallow the cap, by the national. 
> 
> leave feedback here, or come find me @the-pontiac-bandit on tumblr!!

Amy Santiago falls backwards onto her bed with a thud, her purse falling and spilling its contents beside her. Under her, half of the bed is unmade (his half) and a balled-up shirt is making a lump under her spine (his shirt), and she can’t stop seeing his best  _ Die Hard  _ poster on the wall, right next to her framed copy of  _ The New Yorker _ , signed by Andy Borowitz. She turns her face away, towards their bedroom window to watch dusk settle outside.

For a while, she just lies there. Her thoughts are speeding through her head so quickly she wants to give them a speeding ticket, fleeing before she can grasp them fully and leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. They paint a rough picture of the air rushing out of her lungs and  _ guiltyguiltyguilty  _ and Gina’s hand on her shoulder and Jake repeating the word “cool” more times than anyone should physically be able to (she wants to laugh at that. But then she remembers he’s not here to giggle about it with her and the laugh turns into a dry sob). 

She doesn’t notice at first, but eventually, when she turns her head back to the posters, she feels a wet spot. She’s been crying. And then, all of a sudden, with that knowledge, some primal urge takes over, bends every joint that she’d been holding so rigidly straight since Gina drove her home from dinner, and Amy finds herself in the fetal position, sobs ripping through her chest, shaking her to her core. 

Her boots are still on, and she must have yelled at Jake on a hundred different evenings because  _ no shoes on the bed, Peralta _ , but she can’t find the will to kick them off. Her hands are grasping for something, anything, to hold onto, to anchor herself  _ here  _ and focus on not feeling like some essential part of her is locked 20 minutes away in the MDC (even though it is). So one hand finds Jake’s shirt, still tangled under her torso, and the other finds her hair (frantically pulled out of its bun when it suddenly got unbearably tight while she was trying to calmly get some water in her kitchen earlier). 

Distantly, she can hear herself crying - well, crying might not be the right word. Crying is what her brothers’ infants do when they’re hungry or sad or tired.  _ Sobbing,  _ maybe.  _ Screaming. Wailing.  _ The noises that are coming out of her are barely human, and the air is being sucked out of her lungs with the force of them. She’s sure her neighbors can hear her through walls that are far too thin for comfort, but she’s only tangentially aware of it (it’s not like these are the first disturbances they’ve heard from this bedroom, anyway). Mostly, she’s just  _ feeling  _ and everything is jagged and painful and raw and she would give anything in this room, this apartment, this entire freakin’ city for Jake to be here to smooth them out, to hug her close and run his fingers through her hair and hold her hand. But if he were here they’d be laughing, celebrating with a beer and Sal’s and he’d be wearing his detective badge (probably proudly on his forehead, with several hastily drawn Sharpie arrows across his face pointing at it) because he’d be a detective again and everyone would be over and things would be sparkly and shiny and the edges of her vision wouldn’t be going dark like this. 

It feels like it may never end. At first, she’s sure that she’ll be curled up like this, sobbing, for eternity (or at least, until Jake is with her again). But slowly, she runs out of tears. Finally, her breathing evens out, except for the occasional hiccup, and the tears dry on her cheeks. Her throat is raw, and her hair is full of knots, and she feels sick to her stomach, but no more tears will come, and her muscles are too weary to keep sobbing. 

So she rolls over and sits up, noticing as she does that the lights have gone on outside her window - it must be past ten, judging by the quality of the light and the number of cars driving past. The alarm clock on her bedside table (as well as its two backups on her dresser) confirm her hunch. They blink 10:34 at her in such an achingly familiar neon red that another small sob escapes - this morning, they woke her and Jake up together, and tomorrow, it’ll just be her for the first time since...Florida. 

And the thought of six long months curled up on Rosa’s couch while her friend awkwardly stroked her hair and talked about nothing for hours (even though talking is Rosa’s worst nightmare, and talking about  _ nothing  _ is worse than death) to keep her from falling apart almost breaks her again (she’ll break a thousand times over in the next hour, next month, next year). Because it’s not six months - it’s  _ fifteen years _ , and Rosa’s not here to keep her tied to earth this time. But she can’t go there, or she might never get off the bed again. 

The  _ Die Hard  _ poster catches her eye, and for a second, she considers turning it around, thinks maybe it would be less painful if he weren’t quite  _ so here.  _ But then the thought of not seeing it every day is somehow worse, punctuates the acute sense of emptiness that permeates her chest, and she has the strange sudden urge to get up and  _ hug  _ the poster instead. 

Finally, after an eternity that lasts exactly 13 minutes according to her alarm clock, Amy forces herself up, feeling older than her grandmother, full of creaky knees and world-weariness that threatens to engulf her. She realizes numbly that she’s still in her suit from the trial, now wrinkled. She spares a thought for the dry cleaning it’ll have to go through to look work-appropriate, and then dismisses it, throwing the suit on the ground in Jake’s clothes corner (which continues to exist over her fervent objections). 

His pajama shirt gets pulled on, and her softest sweatpants follow. On a normal day, she’d be less than thrilled to be representing Wally’s Wing Wagon, of Poughkeepsie, New York, but right now, the shirt is full of laughter from a prisoner transfer during their third year as partners, when Jake was too hungry to make it to Albany, and she’s remembering Jake wearing it, bleary eyed, when she shook him awake for breakfast this morning, and sadness is welling up inside her, but it’s mixed with affection, and it’s better than the vast abyss that had cracked open in her abdomen. 

As she pulls her hair out of her eyes into a hairdo somewhere between a ponytail and a messy bun (she’s not sure when it got so knotty, but it’s somehow impossible to gather into anything other than a disorganized pile on top of her head. Then she remembers grabbing it, pulling it, rolling on her bed while she screamed, and it clicks), she catches sight of a spot on the wall that’s been irking her for weeks. And suddenly she’s remembering a different tearful night, two months ago, when she was holding Jake as he rocked back and forth on their bed, crying silently into her chest, two hours after they made bail. 

_ Jake’s detective badge, which she’d retrieved with the rest of his belongings at the Five-Four, is still sitting on the bed, along with his cell phone, his wallet, some loose change, and the matchbox car that had been in his pocket for no good reason. They’d been hastily thrown down on the comforter when they got back to the apartment and Jake had collapsed onto their mattress, breathing fast and shallow, arms wrapped around his chest in some vain attempt to hold himself together. So she’d dropped everything to wrap him in her arms and squeeze tight, hoping it might be enough.  _

_ Finally, thankfully, he begins to calm down, and Amy has time to notice that the top of his head, where her cheek had been resting, is wet. Touching her own cheek, she is shocked to find it almost as wet as his - she hadn’t even known she’d been crying.  _

_ Then he’s shifting, trying to turn around so that he can curl up closer and they can lean back against Amy’s twelve pillows. As he does, his detective badge, still on the lanyard he’s used since he first got his promotion eight years ago, pokes him in the leg, and he looks down and scoops it up.  _

_ For a second, then two, he holds it in his hands. His face is inscrutable, but every muscle has gone tense, and he’s as still as a statue. Then, without warning, he hurls it at the opposite wall, throwing his entire body into the motion. A loud, guttural shout accompanies the motion, a sound that shakes Amy deep in her bones. It is rage and terror and a million other things and if she could she’d take them all away from him in a heartbeat but instead she’s helpless and he’s broken and his badge isn’t even really his anymore.  _

_ The badge hits with a surprisingly loud thud, and it sticks there, hanging by one of its points in the thin drywall of their bedroom wall. Shaking a little bit, Amy gets up to pull it out. She’s not sure what she sees on Jake’s face - a combination of anger, despair, and overwhelming terror that she’s never encountered before.  _

_ When she gently wiggles it out, it leaves behind a hole nearly half a centimeter wide, with cracks fanning out like spider webs. She takes a second to curse - what? Jake’s rage-amplified strength? The excellent craftsmanship of the badges? Whatever weird twist of fate that put them here? - and brings it back over to Jake, sitting cross-legged on the bed.  _

_ She decides she’s never seen him look this small before - not even on the ride to FBI headquarters after Figgis called last year. So she puts the detective badge in the drawer of his nightstand. “Keep it safer than that - you’ll need it again before you know it.”  _

_ A gentle kiss to his forehead, and then she crawls back in bed with him, pulling up the covers and pulling him close, hoping that they can keep it together just for tonight. _

The badge is still there, as far as she knows, and then, without really being aware of the fact that she moved, she’s standing in front of his nightstand, a hand on the drawer. But she can’t do it. It shouldn’t be in there. It should be out, flung on the couch or the kitchen counter or the floor of the bathroom or one of the million other places that he finds to put it that isn’t the designated hook for it by their door. It should be with him while he pulls an overnight shift at the precinct. It shouldn’t be here and he shouldn’t be in  _ jail.  _

Amy can feel herself starting to spiral again, knows that a full-on panic attack is on the horizon if she lets herself lie here all night, thinking about him and the myriad of awful eventualities that come with a prison sentence. She turns around listlessly, looking for something, anything, to settle her mind and keep her hands busy. But everything reminds her of him and nothing needs to be done because cleaning up means that it’ll be clean tomorrow and the next day and the day after that because Jake won’t be here to mess it up again and for the first time in her life, the prospect of a perpetually clean room is her worst nightmare.

And then, her eyes find the crack again.  _ There’s  _ something she can fix. She can’t get Jake out of jail, and she can’t bear to clean their bedroom floor, but that crack shouldn’t be there to remind Jake of all this if he gets out ( _ when  _ he gets out, she reminds herself firmly). 

She makes her way to their pantry, where she keeps a toolbox and almost every household repair tool known to man. She took her mother’s lesson to heart all those years ago, has almost never paid a handyman in her adult life because she made a point of teaching herself everything there is to know about home repair. She knows basic plumbing, how to work her circuit board, and how to repair furniture - and walls. When she finds the correct box (carefully labeled  _ Maintenance: Walls, Drywall _ ), though, she finds that she’s missing one crucial piece: the fiberglass drywall tape that she needs to cover the crack. 

For a second, she wonders how she could be out. She always carefully notes when something is running low and makes a weekend stop at Lowe’s to buy more. And anyway, she hasn’t had to fix her walls in  _ years.  _ But then she remembers a certain set of duct-tape accessories that she came home to find scattered on the bed three weeks ago, after...Hawkins. 

_ Jake has tape on his hair, his clothes, and stuck to the duvet. Not just any tape - her fiberglass drywall tape - expensive and  _ extremely  _ useful. Before she can even begin to react, he turns around his laptop to show her a series of Youtube tutorials he had open on how to make everything from a duct-tape wallet to duct-tape slippers. Surrounding him are messy attempts at recreating the elaborate designs, full of exposed tape and poorly-torn edges. All are messily colored with her best set of Sharpies, the ones she thought she’d hidden well enough that Jake would never find them. _

_ “Sorry, Ames, but I was bored and we didn’t have duct-tape.”  _

The memory elicits an eye roll from a frustrated-but-amused Amy. She’s still holding back a veritable tsunami of complicated, painful emotions with a rapidly deteriorating dam, but this memory makes her more happy than sad, so she holds onto it for a few more seconds, remembering the painful process that was removing the extremely sticky tape from his messy curls later that evening. 

Finally, though, she remembers why she needed the tape in the first place. Her phone is telling her that it’s past 11, and she knows that no store selling drywall tape will be open right now. She could wait until morning, but that would involve going back to her room, sitting with nothing but her feelings, trying to sleep in a bed that’s way too cold and way too big, with nothing concrete to hold on to. 

So instead, she finds herself typing in a number. She knows exactly who would have drywall tape (she remembers noting years ago at his birthday party that his walls were drywall - just like hers). She’s hit call before she remembers what time it is or what a breach of the professional relationship it would be to visit his house at almost midnight on a Wednesday because she can’t hold it together. 

Before she can hang up, though, he’s picked up. The seconds are ticking on her display, and she hears him saying her name from her phone’s speaker, growing increasingly concerned with each repetition. Finally, she remembers she’s supposed to talk. 

“Captain Holt?” She asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken in several hours, and she’s shocked to hear how hoarse and small her voice is. She tries to clear her throat, but it doesn’t really help. 

“Amy--Detective Santiago? Are you alright?” His voice sounds shockingly clear over the phone, and the part of her mind that’s always a detective, the part that’s been trained to pick up details no matter the circumstances, notes that it doesn’t sound like she woke him up with the call. (She has no way of knowing, though, that Captain Holt had been sitting up in bed for thirty minutes, debating the pros and cons of calling Amy with Kevin, her contact pulled up on his phone). 

“Yes, sir. I’m fine.” She takes a deep breath. “Do you happen to have any fiberglass drywall tape? There’s a crack--Jake made a crack--I need to fix my wall, and he used all my tape before he...Anyway--” 

He cuts her off. “Yes, Detective Santiago. I have some - I’ll bring it over shortly.” 

“No, sir, I can come get it from you. Please don’t go to any trouble - I know it’s late, and--”

“I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.” And he hangs up, leaving Amy to squeak and pull out the 409 to start cleaning her countertops.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Captain Holt is knocking on her door. She’s managed to straighten the counters and fluff the pillows on their living room sofa, so that it at least appears that her life is put together. She can’t bear to clean up the bedroom, but that doesn’t matter. Holt won’t see that. 

She moves to open the door, only remembering as she unlocks her deadbolt that she’s in sweats and an XXL Wally’s Wing Wagon t-shirt - as far from professional as she could imagine - but it’s too late for her to fix that. So she opens the door, excuses for her attire already on the tip of her tongue. 

When she sees Holt’s face, she starts to let one out, until she sees what he’s wearing: a soft grey NYPD t-shirt tucked into paint-stained jeans, held up with a worn brown belt. Even his shoes are worn in - he came to work. 

All apologies for impropriety die on her lips, so she wordlessly steps back to invite him in. He walks slowly through her apartment, eyes subtly darting around, noting carefully the perfectly arranged pillows, the bare countertops, and the appropriate artwork hung in their hallways. She can tell when his eyes land on the massage chair in the corner because his lips drop and his face falls, just a little, but thankfully, he doesn’t comment. 

“So, where is this crack, Detective?” Holt is looking around, now, a little confused. He’s scanned all the visible walls, and everything is in perfect condition (as Amy ensured it would be). 

“Oh, you don’t have to help me fix it - I know how. I just needed the tape.”

“Don’t be silly, Santiago - I’m sure you’re more than capable, but projects like these are always easier with two sets of hands. I, myself, am also an accomplished handyman.” 

“But, sir, it’s past midnight. I can’t ask that of you.” 

“Nonsense. I’m already here, so show me this crack, and we can get to work.” 

Amy tries to think of an acceptable protest, but she quickly realizes it’s futile. And if she’s being honest, she doesn’t mind the company. Conversation helps keep her breathing normal and her terrors at bay. Holt is no Rosa, and he’s certainly no Jake (her heart clenches, just a little, at the thought of Jake’s bright voice filling a room), but he is certainly a suitable conversationalist, and her muddled brain, still waterlogged and foggy, can’t think of a single reason to refuse him. Meanwhile, her captain is looking at her with increasing concern at her now interminable silence, watching her throat work as she swallows hard once, twice, and again as her fists clench tight at her sides. 

So she takes a deep breath, hoping a sudden influx of oxygen will somehow soothe her nerves and slow her suddenly pounding heart. “Alright, Captain. It’s this way.” 

She picks up her box of maintenance supplies and leads him down their narrow hallway, stepping carefully over the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sneakers that are blocking the narrow hallway between the linen closet and the bedroom. She should bend down and pick them up, should utter an apology for the clutter that will only increase in magnitude as they move deeper into the apartment, but she can’t bring herself to let them move an inch from where Jake dropped them last night. She watches Holt out of the corner of her eye as he follows, half-expecting him to comment, or at least to gently push them aside. But instead, he slowly steps around them, taking great care to avoid even nudging them with a careless toe. His mouth twitches, just a little bit, and the lines in his face deepen, and she’s so startled at his care not to disturb even the smallest detail that she doesn’t realize she’s stopped walking until he nods, gently encouraging her forward. 

When they walk through the bedroom door, Amy steps to one side, turning to him to apologize for the half-made bed and the open box of Frosted Flakes sitting open on one nightstand and for the general Jake-ness of her living space (she realizes as soon as she thinks it that she doesn’t want to apologize for it because she wouldn’t want it to look like anything else), but Captain Holt’s already distracted, frozen only a few steps from the doorway. 

She follows his gaze to the wall above her (their) dresser, to the wall where Jake’s very best  _ Die Hard  _ poster hangs in all its glory. But he’s not looking at the  _ Die Hard  _ poster, is hardly fazed by the sight that pushed Amy off a ledge without caring if she was ready to swim. Instead, he’s staring at the immaculate, fingerprint-less frame (Jake touches his own  _ Die Hard  _ display for luck every morning before work) next to it. 

“I see you liked my Secretive Santa gift,” he notes, a little quietly. 

She smiles a little shyly, remembering a freezing December afternoon two years ago, when her captain, sporting a slightly crooked Santa hat that Charles had forced onto his head, had solemnly handed her a package, explaining that Kevin had utilized his connections in the English department at Columbia, ensuring that his give remained within the specified price restrictions. Now, Andy Borowitz’s signature decorates the cover of a particularly interesting edition of her favorite magazine and adds a pop of color to the wall of her bedroom. 

“Yes, I did - I found it to be both decorative and sentimental.” Externally, she maintains her composure, keeps her voice even and calm. Internally, she high-fives herself for her failure to freak out. 

Holt nods, stares at the pictures hanging together for a few seconds more, and then turns, clearing his throat, to see the crack splitting the wall by the door. 

“How did this happen?” he asks, and below his neutral tone, she can sense a hint of curiosity. 

“A police badge -  _ his  _ police badge...hit it.” Amy’s voice is halting as she does her best to spit the words out. Her throat, already far too tight, has seemed to close up entirely at the prospect of having to say the words aloud, having to relive Jake’s sob and the sound of badge cracking wall for a second time tonight. Fortunately, though, Captain Holt just nods, swallows, and claps his hands. 

“Well, then, let’s get to work.” 

He moves to unpack the box, handing Amy the tape he’d brought and a box cutter (some part of Amy that’s still  _ Amy  _ after all this notes that it’s the same brand as the one she’d been eyeing in Home Depot last month, far nicer than the one sitting in the box behind her). 

The feel of home maintenance supplies in her hands, the prospect of a task occupying the hours ahead, makes her feel more at home than she’s felt all night. She can feel her breath coming just a little bit easier at the prospect of doing  _ something _ . She hadn’t realized there was a weight pressing on her chest, threatening to crush her alive, until it lifted just a millimeter, allowing her lungs to expand just a tiny bit more. She wonders for a second if she’ll ever get to really breathe again, but then she turns back to the task at hand. 

Placing the drywall tape carefully over each of the cracks fanning out from the point of impact is a consuming task. Each piece has to lie perfectly flat, has to angle just right, so that there are no lumps in her wall later, no air bubbles under her carefully chosen, flawlessly applied coat of paint. Her nose is inches from her wall, crouched halfway down so that she is eye-level with a particularly tricky section when she feels a familiar calm wash over her, banishing the panic that’s been clouding her thoughts to darker recesses of her mind. It feels like she’s working a case, if a remarkably low-stakes one, and her mind clears, analyzing angles and strategizing tape-laying with detached efficiency. 

It’s only when Captain Holt clears his throat nearly ten minutes later that she remembers where she is, what she’s doing...  _ why  _ she’s doing it. With a rush, the panic that had been creeping its way back into her consciousness returns in full force, and her knees, bent into a crouch to reach the low end of the crack, give way beneath her, her lungs constricting as she falls to the floor with a  _ thump _ . 

“I’m sorry, Detective Santiago. I was just wondering…” He motions towards the bed uncomfortably, a questioning look in his eyes. It takes Amy a second to breathe, to catch up, to see what he’s asking. And then she notices that the armchair in the corner of the room is covered in a mix of CDs, VHS tapes, brand new dog toys (bought last week for Boyle’s dog’s birthday), and three different animal onesies (Jake swears -  _ swore,  _ she winces, realizing he can’t now - he was going to return two of them, but she knows he was lying). It’s certainly not a suitable place to sit. 

So she opens her mouth, only to find her voice is almost entirely gone. She clears her throat and tries again. Her voice comes out raw, but loud enough for him to hear, “Of course, please, sit.” 

In his haste to comply, he simply sits where he was standing - an entirely unwise move. Rather than landing on Amy’s perfectly made side of the bed, he finds himself landing on a tangled mess of covers that emit a squeak as he lets his weight fall. Shifting, he pulls a small rubber duck with Elvis-style hair out from under himself. 

“A synthetic plastic water fowl?” he asks. “Why is this stored in your bed?”

At the sight of his confusion, Amy loses it. Still sitting on the ground with drywall tape in one hand and a box cutter in the other, she lets the laughter bubbling up from her stomach rip through her and out past her raw throat. It’s an extreme, a release driven by stress and fear and panic, rather than a truly appropriate response to a rubber duck in her bed, but she can’t bring herself to care because a smile is blazing on her face and she’s leaning against the wall for support because she’s not sure if it’s strung out emotions or sheer exhaustion or a low-grade panic attack, but the sight of Holt staring at a rubber duck is maybe the funniest thing she’s ever seen. 

And then, Holt’s expression morphs, as though a light has been switched on inside of him, from confusion to amusement. First a giggle, then a chuckle, then a full-on chortle. He squeezes the duck, and the unexpectedly loud squeak drives them into renewed fits of laughter. Amy can feel some small bit of tension easing out of her body, can see stiffness melting off of Holt, and she maybe feels just a little bit comfortable in her own home again. 

Slowly, their laughter dies down, but some of its warmth still fills the room, seeming to emanate from the small duck now sitting beside Captain Holt. As she surveys the room, she notices that the sight of the  _ Die Hard  _ poster is some small iota less painful than it was an hour ago, and that Captain Holt, while still sitting rod-straight, has settled in on the mattress, examining her work. 

“Nicely taped, Detective. I’m particularly impressed by your ability to cut the ends of the tape without fraying them - that will certainly improve the compound application process.” 

Amy’s heart, still mostly numb, still mostly sitting in the holding cell of the MDC, jumps a little in an achingly familiar way at the praise. She hurries to display her technique as she covers the final piece of crack, and she’s relieved to find that conversation doesn’t stop when she cuts the last piece and reaches for drywall compound. 

Comfortable small talk about home maintenance fills the air and occupies Amy’s brain as she smears the sticky substance over the tape. Seemingly as uncomfortable with inactivity as she is, Captain Holt gets up and finds a second putty knife to help her smooth out the edges. They work together comfortably, and some voice in the back of her brain reminds her she’s literally had dreams about this, but the reality is far more riveting. She learns about his mother, who taught him and Debbie to repair small damages around their home caused by her dance parties and his rigorously realistic reenactments of great historic arrests the summer after his father died. In return, she shares the story of the first time she had to fix a wall - when she threw a baseball at her brother Luis and missed. 

As time passes, their conversation shifts. Captain Holt asks Amy a plethora of questions, some professional, and some surprisingly personal. She’s busy explaining what it was like to grow up in a house full of brothers when she notices there’s nothing left to cover. She steps back for a moment, admiring their handiwork and noting appreciatively that Holt really does have a talent for this kind of thing - the drywall compound blends far more seamlessly with the existing wall than she could have ever hoped to achieve. 

“Well, that’s it,” she remarks, wiping some stray hairs out of her eye and leaving a smear of the white putty on her face in the process. “Thank you so much for helping out, Captain. I really appreciate it.” She tries to hand him his tape, tries to usher him out of the room. But he stays put, chewing the inside of one cheek. The clocks are blinking 1:27 AM with soothing regularity, but she’s far too tired for bed. 

“Well, Detective, this project is far from complete. There is still cleaning to do, of course.” When she tries to protest that she’ll do that, that it’s late and he should be in bed, he simply sidesteps her, pulling a rag out of her maintenance box and beginning to wipe up dust and stray tape and compound that litter the floor below. Amid protests, she bends to help him, but he redirects her strict instructions to leave her home and get some sleep with questions about some of her father’s early work as a detective. 

Twenty minutes later, when she tries again to let him leave, she ushers him as far as the kitchen, when he spots the kettle she keeps on a corner. “Oh, I see you have a Bonavita BV One Nine Zero Zero TS. I’ve heard it brews an excellent drip coffee, a brewing style to which I am particularly partial.” 

Amy’s startled by the shockingly mundane question, and she stops in her tracks for a few moments, trying to find words, before replying. She’s fully aware that if she weren’t quite so numb, so tired, so drained, with a wall of emotions still barely compartmentalized, she’d have a notepad out so that she’d remember to bring Captain Holt a cup of drip coffee every day until she was a captain herself. Instead, she replies simply, “Yes - it works wonderfully. It was a housewarming gift from my father.”

“Would you mind brewing me a cup? I’m mildly drowsy, and I would prefer to achieve peak alertness before attempting to drive.” 

“Of--of course,” Amy stammers, a little startled. “But, sir, it’s almost two.” 

“Yes, but all the same, I think I’d like a coffee. For safety purposes.” 

“Okay. It’ll be a little while.” 

“That’s fine. I believe that there was an excellent documentary on the salinity of contact solution airing that I’ll miss if I drive home right now - if you’ll direct me to your remote control, I’ll see if I can find it.” 

And so, more than a little dumbfounded, Amy Santiago locates her remote (between two couch cushions, where Jake had left it last night after  _ Property Brothers  _ ended) and watches her captain settle comfortably onto her couch, readying himself for an excellent cup of coffee and a fascinating documentary.

While the captain flips through channels, she starts a cup of coffee and heats up some milk for hot chocolate for herself. She finds a box of Jake’s favorite brand in the back of their pantry, shoved there when weather turned unbearably warm at the end of March, and is relieved to find a few packets still crumpled in the bottom - it would be just like him to finish the box and leave it in the pantry, and for some reason, more than anything on this muggy May night, she’s craving the brand of hot chocolate that she spent all winter dissing as watery and weak, far inferior to the Ghirardelli she has carefully labeled with a sticky note reading  _ For Amy only _ . 

Behind her, she can hear the sound of channels changing - bits of infomercials, static, and laugh tracks cycle through her living room, before settling on a vaguely familiar voice giving backstory on a couple from Mishawaka, Indiana. She’s pulled out her nicest mug, another gift from her father, for Holt, and Jake’s panda mug, missing a handle and one ear, for herself when a theme song starts playing and suddenly, everything clicks. 

She turns around to find Captain Raymond Holt leaning forward on her couch, glasses on, already absorbed in  _ Say Yes to the Dress.  _

“Um, Captain? Did you find the documentary?” she asks, a little confused. 

“Documentary?” he pauses for a moment. “Oh, yes! The documentary! About the salinity of contact solution!” Another pause. “No, I was unable to find it. Apparently I was mistaken. But this entertainment I’m sure will prove satisfactory.” 

“Oh, no, sir! Here - let me see the remote,” she requests, speeding over to the couch. “There’s far more advanced, stimulating content available, I’m sure.”

Holt snatches the remote to his chest suspiciously quickly. “I think this will be fine, Detective Santiago. I was likely mistaken about the night that the documentary is airing.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, Captain. What channel was it on?” She goes to the TV and finds the button on the side. “I can find it.” 

“It was probably on…H...Z...T...V...U...Channel,” he says haltingly, his face as still as the day they met him. 

Amy pauses for a moment, taking in his odd behavior. She’s trying to puzzle it out, to connect his guarded face with the fact that her Google notification about contact-lens related documentaries hadn’t alerted her to any new content, when the coffeemaker in the kitchen beeps. So instead of probing further, she murmurs assent and goes to get their drinks. 

She settles onto the couch, on her designated side, where her softest blanket is folded over the back. Holt reaches for his coffee and sips, sighing in appreciation when the perfectly-heated liquid hits his throat. “A truly excellent cup of coffee - you were right about the Bonavita BV One Nine Zero Zero TS.” 

Amy nods, sipping her own hot chocolate, which she’s relieved to find tastes like home and safety and Jake and happier winter nights curled up in their new shared apartment.  _ Say Yes to the Dress  _ plays comfortably in the background as they settle into a relaxed silence. Her chest pangs painfully for a second at the realization that only a few weeks ago she’d been subtly eyeing the dresses, strategizing for her now-uncertain future, but she forces it down. If she thinks about that too much, she’ll never get off the couch again, so instead, she forces herself to focus on the increasingly insane requests of the bride, even managing to pull out a harsh bark of a laugh when she requests a dress made entirely of feathers with ten-foot wings. 

It isn’t until she gives up on the feathers and attempts to find an entirely sheer dress, under which she hopes to wear a bright pink string bikini, that Holt breaks the silence. “Is the woman absolutely  _ mad _ ? A string bikini? Just walk down the aisle  _ naked _ , for all the coverage that will provide!” 

Amy’s startled. She’d assumed he was bored, was just waiting until he’d finished his coffee to make a graceful departure, so she’s even more surprised when she turns to address his outburst and sees his mug, centered on a coaster and entirely empty. 

“Oh, sir, if you’re done, I’ll let you out - I wouldn’t want to impose any further on your time.” 

“There is absolutely no imposition to worry about, Detective. After all, as I’m sure you’re aware, caffeine can take up to thirty minutes to fully reach the bloodstream. Given this fact, it would be far safer for me to stay until this episode is complete. However, if I may ask, are all brides this...difficult?”

She laughs at his confusion, and takes his shifting to settle deeper into her couch as a sign that he’s truly intending to stay. So she laughs, just a little, and starts to explain the process by which Kleinfelds chooses the brides to feature, feeling her chest loosen a tad at the realization that she won’t be alone. 

When that episode ends, another starts, and before she can suggest that Holt leave, he’s settled in, pulling out a pad to take thorough notes and see if he can anticipate the bride’s final choice before the salesperson. He’s guessed three minutes in the exact style of the dress that the bride eventually purchases, and Amy loses herself in a wave of competitiveness, pulling out a legal pad from a drawer in the coffee table and suggesting they see who can guess first for a third episode. 

After two rounds, during which they both grow increasingly competitive and Amy almost manages to forget what brought Captain Holt to her apartment in the middle of the night ( _ almost _ ), she remembers the time. Concerned, she pauses the TV and turns to him. 

“Captain! It’s past three, and we have work tomorrow. Should you be getting home?” 

“Santiago,” he starts, but then he pauses, seeming to note the tension in her shoulders, the slight quake of her hands, her still-red eyes. “...Amy, should you be coming into work tomorrow? Given all that’s happened to,” he inhales, perhaps a bit more sharply than necessary, “Jake?”

Her heart clenches, twisting inside her chest, and her breathing quickens with the effort of holding in tears that have suddenly sprung up right behind her eyes. She’s going to have to get better at this, going to have to be able to hear his name without wanting to sprint to the MDC and break every rule in the book to clutch him tight to her chest. She wants Jake  _ here  _ to soothe her and run his fingers through her hair and scream at the TV with her, but instead Captain Holt is using her first name and his hand lands gently on her shoulder as ragged sounds escape her throat. She’s angry at herself - she’d maintained her professionalism all night and all it took was hearing his name once to bring her to the edge. 

“...Amy?” His voice is gentler, if a bit shaky, and only then does she realize that she’s curled up, that at some point her knees found their way to her chest and tears -  _ her  _ tears - are staining her cheeks. 

Slowly, with a great deal of effort, she forces herself to sit up straight, replaying the seminar on posture she sat through six years ago on loop in her head as she aligns each vertebra of her spine and intertwines her fingers in her lap. 

“I’m f-fine, sir. I think...I think not coming in would be worse.” It’s all she can manage because the thought of spending tomorrow alone in her apartment, with his smell slowly wearing off his sweatshirt (the thought makes her want to find some airtight evidence bags as a precaution) is overwhelming. 

He nods slowly, carefully. “I understand. If you wouldn’t mind coming into my office first, I’d like to go over the new evidence in the case with you. I think if we can connect Flaxton Hill Farms to Hawkins, we may have a legitimate case for appeal.” 

She looks up then, a small flicker of light in her eyes as Holt’s hand tightens a little on her shoulder. “Really?” 

“Absolutely.” He falls silent then, giving her time to let hope sink in, bury itself deep in her chest somewhere she won’t be able to uproot it in a dark moment. He watches as the pain fades in her eyes, replaced by a fiery determination that is so familiar, so  _ normal  _ that he almost feels as though they’re back in a bomb diffusing class instead of on her couch at 3:30 in the morning. 

Slowly, carefully, the tears stop entirely and she relaxes back into the couch. He takes back his hand, using it to unpause the TV, so that the debate over sweetheart or boatneck fills the silence. With the familiar sound of the TV in the background, the comfort of the warm mug clutched in her hands, and the solid presence of her captain once again taking notes on skirt styles, Amy relaxes. Everything in her is still raw, and tears are still threatening to spill over and drown her, but she feels like herself again. She has a purpose, a goal, and feeling is filling every extremity, nerves tingling in her fingers and toes as though they’d been asleep, at the thought of it. She’s far from joy, from hope, but determination and fierce anger have replaced the helplessness that was overwhelming her. It clears her head, stills her hands, and for the first time, she realizes how bone-tired she is. 

“You can go, sir. Thank you - for the tape, the company, the help. Truly.” She makes a move to get up. 

“Actually, Amy, I’m now concerned I may need to…” he pauses for a second, seemingly searching for words, “...use the restroom in the near future, if you don’t mind my company for a half-hour longer, until I’m certain that I have...an empty bladder.” He seems to wince at his own painfully thin excuse, but Amy just smiles. 

“Of course, sir. Bathroom’s down the hall whenever you need it.” 

All of a sudden, her eyes can’t seem to stay open. She tries to write more notes, to keep pace with Holt as one episode blends into the next, but instead she finds herself startled awake when he shouts triumphantly that he was correct. Before she can move, though, her eyes fall shut against the suddenly bright light of the TV. 

They open again at seven in the morning to bright light streaming through the windows and the muffled sound of her alarms beeping in the bedroom. Holt is gone, but a sticky note sits on her phone screen. She sits up to read it, noting the blanket that was carefully unfolded and placed over her. 

_ Amy -- _

_ I locked the door behind me and left your key under the mat. I plan on seeing you at work at 9AM sharp - I’ll have coffee and case files in my office.  _

_ \-- Raymond _


End file.
